Not a shrub that I heard her admire,
But I hasted and planted it there.
O how sudden the jessamine strove
With the lilac to render it gay!
Already it calls for my love,

To prune the wild branches away.

From the plains, from the woodlands and groves,
What strains of wild melody flow!
How the nightingales warble their loves
From the thickets of roses that blow!
And when her bright form shall appear,
Each bird shall harmoniously join
In a concert so soft and so clear,
As-she may not be fond to resign.

I have found out a gift for my fair;

I have found where the wood-pigeons breed: But let me that plunder forbear,

She will say 'twas a barbarous deed.
For he ne'er could be true, she averred,
Who would rob a poor bird of his young:
And I loved her the more when I heard

Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

I have heard her with sweetness unfold
How that pity was due to a dove:
That it ever attended the bold;

And she called it the sister of love.
But her words such a pleasure convey,
So much I her accents adore,
Let her speak, and whatever she say,
Methinks I should love her the more.

Can a bosom so gentle remain

Unmoved when her Corydon sighs? Will a nymph that is fond of the plain, These plains and this valley despise ? Dear regions of silence and shade!

Soft scenes of contentment and ease; Where I could have pleasingly strayed, If aught, in her absence, could please.

But where does my Phyllida stray?

And where are her grots and her bowers? Are the groves and the valleys as gay, And the shepherds as gentle as ours? The groves may perhaps be as fair, And the face of the valleys as fine; The swains may in manners compare, But their love is not equal to mine.

III. SOLICITUDE.

Why will you my passion reprove?
Why term it a folly to grieve?
Ere I show you the charms of my love,
She's fairer than you can believe.
With her mean she enamors the brave;
With her wit she engages the free ;
With her modesty pleases the grave;
She is every way pleasing to me.

O you that have been of her train,
Come and join in my amorous lays;
I could lay down my life for the swain,
That will sing but a song in her praise.
When he sings, may the nymphs of the town
Come trooping, and listen the while;
Nay on him let not Phyllida frown ;-
But I cannot allow her to smile.

For when Paridel tries in the dance
Any favor with Phyllis to find,
O how, with one trivial glance,

Might she ruin the peace of my mind!

In ringlets he dresses his hair,

And his crook is bestudded around;
And his pipe-oh my Phyllis, beware
Of a magic there is in the sound.

"Tis his with mock passion to glow,
'Tis his in smooth tales to unfold,
How her face is as bright as the snow,
And her bosom, be sure, is as cold.
How the nightingales labor the strain,
With the notes of his charmer to vie ;

How they vary their accents in vain,
Repine at her triumphs, and die.

To the grove or the garden he strays,
And pillages every sweet;
Then, suiting the wreath to his lays,
He throws it at Phyllis's feet.
"O Phyllis," he whispers, " more fair,
More sweet than the jessamine's flower!
What are pinks in a morn to compare ?
What is eglantine after a shower?

"Then the lily no longer is white;

The rose is deprived of its bloom; Then the violets die with despite,

And the woodbines give up their perfume." Thus glide the soft numbers along,

And he fancies no shepherd his peer ;—

Yet I never should envy the song,
Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear.

Let his crook be with hyacinths bound,
So Phyllis the trophy despise :
Let his forehead with laurels be crowned,
So they shine not in Phyllis's eyes.
The language that flows from the heart,
Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue;—

Yet may she beware of his art,
Or sure I must envy the song.

IV. DISAPPOINTMENT.

Ye shepherds, give ear to my lay,
And take no more heed of my sheep;
They have nothing to do but to stray;
I have nothing to do but to weep.
Yet do not my folly reprove;

She was fair-and my passion begun ;
She smiled-and I could not but love;
She is faithless-and I am undone.

Perhaps I was void of all thought:
Perhaps it was plain to foresee,

That a nymph so complete would be sought
By a swain more engaging than me.

Ah! love every hope can inspire ;
It banishes wisdom the while;
And the lip of the nymph we admire
Seems for ever adorned with a smile.

She is faithless, and I am undone;
Ye that witness the woes I endure,
Let reason instruct you to shun
What it cannot instruct you to cure.
Beware how you loiter in vain
Amid nymphs of a higher degree:
It is not for me to explain

How fair, and how fickle they be.

Alas! from the day that we met,
What hope of an end of my woes?
When I cannot endure to forget

The glance that undid my repose.
Yet time may diminish the pain:

The flower, the shrub, and the tree, Which I reared for her pleasure in vain, In time may have comfort for me.

The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose,

The sound of a murmuring stream, The peace which from solitude flows,

Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme. High transports are shown to the sight, But we're not to find them our own; Fate never bestowed such delight,

As I with my Phyllis had known.

O ye woods, spread your branches apace;
To your deepest recesses I fly;

I would hide with the beasts of the chase;
I would vanish from every eye.

Yet my reed shall resound through the grove With the same sad complaint it begun : How she smiled-and I could not but love; Was faithless-and I am undone !

333

LYRIC POETRY.

THE TWENTY-THIRD PSALM.-KING DAVID.

He maketh me

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

KINDRED HEARTS.-MRS. HEMANS.

Oh! ask not, hope thou not too much
Of sympathy below;

Few are the hearts whence one same touch
Bids the sweet fountains flow:
Few-and by still conflicting powers

Forbidden here to meet

Such ties would make this life of ours
Too fair for aught so fleet.

It may be that thy brother's eye
Sees not as thine, which turns
In such deep reverence to the sky,
Where the rich sunset burns:
It may be that the breath of spring,
Born amidst violets lone,

A rapture o'er thy soul can bring—
A dream, to his unknown.

The tune that speaks of other times-
A sorrowful delight!

The melody of distant chimes,

The sound of waves by night;